


The Hit

by NathanielCardeu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adult Hermione Granger, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Lemon, Mystery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: “Sometimes, standing for what you believe, means standing alone” - HatebreedHermione is on the run. The only people who could possibly help her, are the ones that are hunting her down. Is there a chance she can trust any them? And can they trust her?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nottonyharrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottonyharrison/gifts).



> Originally written as part of a Fic Exchange Challenge, on Granger Enchanted.  
> I was called in as a last minute writer when someone dropped out of the challenge, and had to write this little fic in a couple of days. It was also for a writer that I have massive respect for, and the added pressure terrified me :D
> 
> As I'm reposting it, I dedicate it again to the awesome nottonyharrison, and hope she's doing awesome, wherever she is, and whatever she is doing.
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> As ever it is my sorrow to report that none of these lovely and delectable characters are mine, they belong to J K Rowling. I just kinda… ruffled them up a bit… just a bit… totally didn’t make them a bit messed up. Honest!
> 
> Anyway, plot’s mine, character’s not. Enjoy!

**_ MINISTER FOR MAGIC MURDERED! _ **

**_Murder Most Foul In London!_ **

 

_Kingsley Shacklebolt, our beloved Minister, who has guided our shattered land through trial and tribulation since You-Know-Who’s death, has been killed. Murdered in his office, by unknown hands, Mr Shacklebolt was found this morning by the Junior Assistant, Romilda Vane…_

With a rustle of paper, the man behind the large desk dragged another copy of The Prophet in front of himself, hiding the picture of the ‘distraught’ Romilda Vane. Bitch had been lapping up the attention when the reporters had quizzed her, loving her moment in the limelight. The Minister was dead and the little glory seeking… He glanced down at the words in front of him, ignoring the other man in his office.

 

**_ HIGH LEVEL AUROR WANTED FOR QUESTIONING! _ **

**_Aurors To Question Hermione Granger About Minister’s Murder!_ **

_The Auror’s office today issued a plea for War Heroine, Hermione Granger, to contact them about the murder of the Minister for Magic, which took place yesterday. Senior Undersecretary, Oliver Wood, pleas for the powerful witch to contact him. Their past relationship is known to all; how much effect this will have on how he handles her questioning will…_

 

“Oh, fuck off.” The next paper was slammed down with force

 

“You’re gonna have to make a decision, Mr Undersecretary.”

 

The low drawl was irritating and the dark-haired man glared at the speaker. “I’ll decide, Mr Malfoy, when I’m ready!”

 

**_ WAR HEROINE WANTED FOR THE MURDER OF MINISTER FOR MAGIC!! _ **

**_Hermione Granger Wanted For Murder!_ **

_Today, this reporter was told by sources close to the Undersecretary and Acting-Minister, Oliver Wood, that War Heroine, Hermione Granger, was wanted in connection with the murder of Kingsley Shacklebolt. This shocking revelation has led to outcry in the Wizarding world, many refusing to believe that such a champion for freedom as Miss Granger could possibly have had anything to do with such a terrible crime._

_But this reporter knows, first hand, how brutal and manipulative Miss Granger can be. 18 years ago, I was held prisoner by Miss Hermione Granger and tortured, forced to write only what she would allow. It surprises me not at all that her aggressive and domineering attitude has culminated in such a terrible murder…_

“Gods, this fucking woman, she’s just talking shit! Merlin, this is a nightmare. The press is all over this…”

 

“Wood, focus! Stop reading the newspapers and just give the order to slip the leash.” Draco leant forward, into the light. His face was scarred, marring his once-good looks; the large, jagged scar ran from the bridge of his nose, over his lips and down to the point of his chin. The Head of the Auror Office had had a rough life after the Battle of Hogwarts; recovering his credibility after his family’s abrupt U-turn, training for the job and helping to track and capture the large amount of Voldemort’s Captains and Lieutenants that had avoided capture. The scar was a gift from a Dark wizard’s pet Hippogriff, which had taken exception to Draco’s attempt to imprison the creature’s master; the wizard was long buried and the Hippogriff’s head decorated Draco’s wall now.

 

There had been so many wizards and witches that had escaped justice, and like rats and sinking ships, or cockroaches with the lights flicked on, they had scattered to the corners of the country and vanished. Each one slowly came back though, setting up their own little empires and bases, recruiting like-minded people and staging raids and attacks against civilisation.

 

The Auror Office had been stretched to capacity and could barely cope; whenever they got one, he or she was rescued, or ended up getting released on a technicality. Memories were long and many still remembered the power these men and women held. Few were willing to risk their family’s safety. That was when Hermione, one of the leading lights of the Hit Witch and Wizard Team, suggested a secret office, within the select team; a _real_ hit squad—specially trained Aurors that would go above and beyond to take down the leaders that couldn’t be captured without risking them walking free. If they just, mysteriously and unexpectedly, died, then there was no problem. There was only so many heads that this Hydra could produce.

 

It had worked for years, the small, secret, six-person team travelling the country and the world, tracking and ‘dealing’ with the various problems that the normal Aurors and Hit Wizards couldn’t deal with; sometimes together, or in pairs, but most often alone. They would find them, distract them, and then take them out; magical Black Ops. But now, suddenly, that leading light and most capable—some said ruthless—hit-witch in the team, was implicated in the murder of the Minister.

 

“This was not... Getting them involved is not the way I wanted this handled.” Slumping back in his chair Oliver sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. All his anger drained away as a wave of exhaustion swept over him instead. After a moment he waved at Malfoy, a bitter grimace on his face. “Fine, fuck it. Release the dogs. Take her down, however you have to.”

 

“Right decision. They’ll get the job done.” Draco stood and turned to leave but a word from Oliver stopped him at the door.

 

“Draco. Just… tell them to… to make it…”

 

“She won’t suffer, Oliver,” Draco said with a sneer. “I can promise you that much.”

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

Deep in the depths of the Welsh countryside was a tiny hamlet called Ffair Rhos, or Fair Moor. It was quiet, peaceful, and way off the beaten track, which suited Hermione Granger fine. Her little safe house, hidden out in these hills and valleys, was perfectly secret, known only to a very few.

 

There were several, scattered across the British Isles. However remote they were, that didn’t make them all safe though. It all depended on who was doing the looking.

 

Moving quietly, Hermione crept through the single story house. After disarming the various Charms that protected the front door—along with several nasty jinxes—she began a slow and careful sweep of the property. She moved through each room in turn, working her way towards the back of the house, scanning each exterior window and door as she went. She paused briefly by one window, listening intently.

 

Moving on, she entered the bedroom and stopped again, surveying the area. Nothing appeared to have been touched in the few months since she had been here. Sheathing her wand she stared at the wardrobe for a long time, stepping closer, eyes fixed on the doors.

 

With a sudden yell, she kicked the door, splintering the lower half and damaging the base slightly. The sound of splintering wood echoed through the building. The door swung open on its hinges to reveal an empty wardrobe.

 

Hermione turned and stepped away before she felt a presence behind her and the point of a wand was pressed into the back of her neck. She gave a small smile. “Evening, Zabini.”

 

“How’d you know it was me, Granger?” The dark-skinned man’s voice purred along her skin. He had a voice like chocolate; dark chocolate, she thought with a small laugh.

 

“How could I forget my favourite student?” Hermione lifted her hands to the side, showing them to be empty. “Besides, you always make the same mistake whenever you break one of my security charms. Now what did I tell you the last time?”

 

She felt a hand slip around her waist, sneaking up her body to squeeze one of her breasts. She heard, rather than saw, the smile in his voice. “Can’t really remember, seeing as I was busy fucking you when you told me.”

 

“Keep aware of your surroundings, Blaise.”

 

With the crack of splintering wood, the base of the wardrobe gave way under its own weight and fell forward. Hermione pistoned her elbow backwards, jabbing the tall wizard in the stomach and rolled to the side. She got clear in time to see Blaise pinned beneath the heavy unit. As the man swore and struggled, Hermione found her feet, took two rapid steps and kicked Blaise’s hand, knocking his wand away from him. Crouching down, her face set in a stern mask; she grabbed his collar and swung a brutal right hook into the side of his face.

 

“Why are you here?” Her voice was cold and tight, an anger barely under control.

 

“Ow! Fuck’sake! Why do you think!? Wood’s turned the whole Auror office to finding you.”

 

“Why are _you_ here?”

 

“Because they couldn’t find you, of course. All of us have been pulled off of our missions and brought back home. A lot of bad feeling about it too… kinda screwed up several weeks of work for me, never mind the shit storm it’s caused for the Ice Queen.”

 

Hermione cocked her head and punched him again. “So how did you find me?”

 

“Fuck,” Zabini grunted, spitting out blood. “We all know where your hideouts are, Granger. Between us we’ve probably seen them all, and each other’s.”

 

“Strange that Parkinson didn’t find me first. She wouldn’t have fucked up the entry, like you did, and I’d already be dead.”

 

“She says she’s checking out your base in Scotland, but she asked us to pass on a message, if someone else found you first. Said that she’ll ‘finally get to pay you back for that Romanian Hustle’. Apparently you’d know what that meant.”

 

Hermione stopped, fist raised, a handful of Blaise’s shirt in the other. Surprise flitted through her, emotions changing and shifting on her face. Zabini just watched until Hermione gradually became aware of his scrutiny and stilled her features once more. “Thanks, Zabini,” she said at last, releasing him.

 

“Hey, no problem. A little help?”

 

Stepping back, Hermione grasped the edge of the wardrobe and lifted it, Blaise pushing upwards from underneath. Setting it back against the wall Hermione offered the man a hand, pulling him to his feet.

 

The tall man fingered his jaw, his tongue exploring his mouth tentatively. “Think you broke a tooth.” As Hermione walked around him he looked her in the eye and squared his shoulders. “Ok,” he muttered, “make it look good.”

 

“I will.”

 

Her roundhouse kick knocked him unconscious and sent him spinning backwards to crash into the splintered remains of the wardrobe.

 

By the time the shattered wood had settled, Hermione had already Disapparated.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

**One Week Earlier…**

 

The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped towards the offered chair, feeling his limbs tremble and threaten to give way beneath him. Strong but gentle hands supported him as he lowered himself down and he nodded his thanks to the woman at his side. His dark skin glistened in the lamp light, a sheen of sweat covering his bald head, and he coughed, a deep, hacking rasp that had a far more liquid sound to it than was healthy.

  
Kingsley Shacklebolt was not a well man, and for the last few weeks, he had been getting rapidly weaker. The cough never left him, no matter what charms or healing spells were cast upon him. The medi-witch caring for him was kind but she was unable to give him anything that stopped the pain in his chest and his head. It felt as if his body was trying to pull itself apart.

 

Coming here had been a last ditch attempt and only at the insistence of the lady at his side. The Minister looked at the dark-robed man opposite him. Despite hearing Harry Potter speak in the man’s defence and explaining why Dumbledore had been killed, Kingsley still had trouble finding forgiveness in his heart for the hook nosed professor.

 

If Severus Snape understood the issue that Kingsley had with him, he gave no indication of it, or was not interested. He simply leant forward and spoke quietly and matter-of-factly. “I have examined your blood, Minister, and determined that you are dying. There is neither cure nor, in fact, any way to slow the effect. There is no way—or need—for me to sugar coat it.”

 

The woman at Kingsley’s side started to speak but Kingsley held up a hand to forestall her. “What is it, Severus?” Despite his weak health, the Minister’s voice was still deep and rumbling and the lady beside him felt a surprising sorrow in her heart at the strength of this man, that he hadn’t broken down and wept at the news.

 

“A slow-acting neurotoxin, Minister, and an extremely deadly one at that.” Snape sat back in his chair, dark eyes flicking momentarily to the woman, stood by the Minister. Her hand rested on the chair back, just behind the dark man’s shoulder. “You have, at some point in the past, been exposed to a Muggle-made compound called dimethylmercury. It is colourless, virtually odourless, and fatal, even at extremely small doses. How it was given to you I cannot tell, though from the look of your left hand, I would say that it was something you touched. You are right handed generally, are you not?”

 

Kingsley glanced at his hand, seeing the familiar scarring; raised and yellowed flesh that had been there for the last couple of months. “For everything but writing, yes. Why didn’t the Healers detect it when they examined me? They thought that this was simply some kind of skin condition.”

 

“As I said,” Snape said, with an impatient twist to his mouth, “dimethylmercury is a _Muggle_ creation. Our esteemed Healers do not keep abreast of chemistry in the Muggle world and our magic tends to be confounded by it. They wouldn’t have tested your blood in the same way that I have either.” The black-haired man stood and walked to his work bench. Collecting a sheaf of papers, he thrust these into the Minister’s hands, seemingly eager for this meeting to be over with. “The levels of mercury in your blood are fatally high and the damage caused is irrevocable. You are dead already, Mr Shacklebolt, you have merely to stop moving.”

 

The sound of a knife being drawn was loud in the office and Kingsley thrust out a hand to stop the woman from using it against the Potion Master. Snape, for his part, merely raised a bored eyebrow. “Whether you find this news distasteful is irrelevant. You asked me to tell you what ailed the Minister and I have done so.”

 

“With your usual lack of emotion or consideration for his feelings,” the bushy-haired woman said, her voice tight and angry. The blade in her hand twitched as she spoke and it seemed almost like she would throw it.

 

“I am not a Healer, Miss Granger,” the tall man said, with a sneer, “so my bedside manner has never been a concern of mine. I state the facts. Now I suggest you sheath your weapon and take the Minister home so he can rest. The satchel by the door contains some potions that will ease his pain.”

 

Kingsley hauled himself to his feet and Hermione rapidly slid the blade into its sheath, reaching out to lend him an arm. “Snape,” Kingsley began but a hacking cough interrupted him and he doubled over, supported only by Hermione’s strong arms. After a while, the fit passed and the Minister stood tall again. Reaching out a shaky hand towards the Potion Master, his damaged left hand clutched to his chest, he nodded his thanks. “Snape… Severus,” he corrected himself, “thank you. Goodbye.”

 

Severus looked at the proffered hand, and after a moment, clasped it tightly. “I hope you can find who did this to you, Minister.”

 

“They will be found, my friend. Though not likely till after I am gone to my grave.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

With a muted crack, Hermione swirled into existence. All around her, the houses were still and dark, nights’ embrace swaddling the town of Dorchester in its thick blanket. She was on the outskirts, and carefully she began to move towards a small bungalow, set off to the side of the road.

 

Silently, she cast a variety of charms over herself, rendering her as invisible as she could, masking her life signs and her body heat. She was sure it wouldn’t be enough to fool the Slytherin woman, if she had read her message correctly; Durna and Varia had been the aliases they had used in Romania, Durnovaria was the ancient Roman name for Dorchester. After the mission they had come back here to cool off—and discuss certain events that had occurred during the mission. Two and two, should mean that Parkinson was here. If she _was_ here though… well, Hermione could very well be dead before she managed to get inside. But Pansy, unfortunately, may just be her only hope.

 

At least Parkinson would listen before killing her; Flint would break her in half as soon as he saw her, Malfoy would take his time and Lavender… Even Hermione’s stoic and hardened nature couldn’t suppress the shudder that swept over her at the thought of Lavender getting hold of her first.

 

None of the others knew about Dorchester; only Pansy, she reminded herself. As long as Pansy hadn’t told, that is. Hermione shook her head angrily. There was no point talking herself in circles like this; Pansy was her only hope within the team of getting any form of fair hearing. Getting a firmer grip on her wand, and her nerves, Hermione slipped up to the wall of the small house, sliding around to the rear and casting a swift charm on the hatch that led to the basement, searching for any hidden spells. Finding it clear she lifted it, slipping swiftly down the stairs and into the cool interior. She silently let the hatch click closed again and paused. All was quiet.

 

Ears straining, eyes unblinking, Hermione made her way to the main house, climbing the flight of stairs and up to the basement door. Finding it clear, she slipped through and into the bungalow proper; still no sound, no indication that anyone was there. Ghostlike she slid from room to room, checking her security charms and looking for any sign that someone had been here.

 

Finally, in the kitchen, she found that sign.

 

As she stepped into the room a bright light flared, stealing her vision in a disorientating flash. Throwing herself to the side, Hermione cast a shield charm, just in time, as several heavy impacts struck around her, rattling ineffectively off of her defences. Rolling and regaining her feet, she saw the attack just in time to bat aside the sword blade with her arm, feeling it cut into her wrist as the wielder twisted the blade. Ducking under her attackers’ arms, Hermione rolled again, ready to defend, wand firing a stinging jinx and desperately trying to clear her vision.

 

Her attacker paused, simply watching and waiting. Hermione focused at last and recognised the stance, crouched, leant forward. The katana, held reversed across her back, gave her away as well.

 

“Pansy,” Hermione acknowledged, with a slight smile.

 

“Hello, kitten,” the assassin said, with a grin. “Found me then?”

 

“Funny, I thought you were supposed to be finding me?” Hermione began to move, keeping Pansy in front of her but putting the table, in the centre of the kitchen, between them. “Blaise was quite clear on that. Just before I beat shit out of him, of course.”

 

Pansy’s wand was gripped in her left hand and it twitched slightly at Hermione’s words. “Of course. But then pup never was very good at reading you, was he, kitten? I, however…” Her eyes narrowed a split second before the table exploded in a ball of fire and the dark-haired witch leapt through the flames, cutting off Hermione’s escape attempt, the sword plunging deep in the counter.

 

Hermione, who had started to dart in that direction, stopped just in time to avoid slicing herself open on the wicked blade. Pansy released her sword, slapping Hermione across the face and spinning her round, along the counter. Hermione pulled a cabinet door open and Pansy punched it, hard, crying out in pain. Hermione’s retaliation was blocked, flicked aside with a casual hand as the hit-witch drew a long bladed knife from her belt.

 

Blood dripped from the cut on Hermione’s arm and sweat ran into it, stinging slightly. She watched Pansy as she shifted her stance, and quirked an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Come on then, Pans. You think you can read me? Tell me what I’m going to do next.”

 

The Slytherin gave a small laugh. “Apart from bleed, you mean?” Springing forward, Pansy struck with the blade, Hermione flicking her head aside and catching the other woman’s wrist in a tight grip. Using the slighter woman’s momentum, Hermione shoved her hip into Pansy’s side and flipped her, throwing her across the room with a grunt of effort. The set of shelves shattered under the assassin’s weight, plates and cups spilling across the tiled floor and bursting apart.

 

Regaining her feet almost instantly, she leapt back towards Hermione, striking out with her foot. Hermione took the hit on her shoulder, allowing it to spin her and place her behind Pansy; her kick shoved her assailant into the counter, head striking the glass cabinet with a shattering sound.

 

Pivoting smoothly, the impact barely slowing her, Pansy dodged aside as the knife block, all blades coming free, rocketed towards her head at Hermione’s command. The large knife set buried itself into the wood, the block ricocheting off and into the fire. “Your aim still sucks, Granger.”

 

Rolling forwards Pansy came up in front of Hermione again, striking out with hands, feet and knife. The Gryffindor dodged, blocked and counter-struck, neither witch able to gain an advantage over the other. A backhand chop batted Hermione’s wand from her grip and it spun away, into the dining room. Snatching up a colander, Hermione caught Pansy’s knife thrust, flinching back as the blade slid through the thin metal with ease. Twisting the utensil Hermione wrenched the dagger from Pansy’s grip, delivering a devastating punch-kick combo that sent the assassin sprawling into the burning table, a cry of pain on her lips and her wand flying from her grasp.

 

“Who cares about aim? I’m still standing and you’re on fire,” Hermione retorted with a grin, gasping for breath and dropping the colander and knife to the floor.

 

Flipping upright again, Pansy brushed at her hair, extinguishing the few sparks that clung to it. The two witches locked eyes, each one smiling in pleasure at the unadulterated energy that flowed between them. Pansy moaned slightly in pain, as she pressed lightly on her side. “Good hit, Granger,” she conceded.

 

Hermione was sure that there was at least one broken rib in there. As the dark-haired witch straightened, Hermione tossed her hair and beckoned with her hand, ignoring her own aches and pains. “Come on then, Parkinson. Come get it, if you think you’re hard enough.”

 

“You asked for it.” Pansy leapt forward, hands and feet a blur. Hermione met her, head on using her slightly stronger build to her advantage; Pansy was lithe and quick but her punches were not as powerful. Back and forth, across the kitchen, the two witches battled, Hermione gradually claiming the advantage. More and more of the furniture suffered as the combatants used everything they could against each other; a saucepan, a chair leg, even a balloon whisk, all became weapons. They each lasted one, maybe two strikes, before it was knocked aside or broken.

 

Reeling from a vicious strike with a frying pan, Pansy turned it into a graceful backflip, collecting her wand from the floor as she did so. Avoiding the hurled frying pan, Pansy vaulted over her sword—still embedded in the counter—and rolled to her feet on the other side, wiping sweat and blood out of her eyes.

 

“Hey, Granger, make it easy on yourself and just give up now,” Pansy called, levelling her wand at Hermione. A series of curses and hexes blasted the kitchen in a line, following Hermione’s progress, as she ran and dove over the breakfast bar, sliding and falling into the dining area. Wrenching open a cupboard and reaching inside, the bushy-haired witch cursed violently.

 

“If you’re looking for your toys, Hermione, I should let you know that someone appears to have taken them all.”

 

Hermione lunged sideways, with a frustrated cry, snatching her wand from the dining room carpet. Surging upwards, she unleashed a ball of fire at the far end of the kitchen that blew out the window and set the counter on fire.

 

The room was empty.

 

“Face to face isn’t your forte, is it, Parkinson?” she called out, watching for movement in the half light. “Reckon I nearly had you then.” Blood trickled down her arm and neck from the various cuts she had suffered. Her limbs ached but her wand hand was steady as she scanned all around her. “Shadows are all you know really, keeping everything hidden and so on…”

 

There was no response. Swearing under her breath Hermione cast a wordless charm, extinguishing the remaining flames in the kitchen. Another charm searched for signs of life. One flashed up in her senses, behind her.

 

She spun, just in time to have her wand hand struck hard, the precious item spinning away once more. Pansy closed in, seeming to appear behind her in full motion, and kicked Hermione’s leg, knocking it out from underneath her. Catching her as she fell, Pansy grabbed Hermione’s throat and pushed her against the breakfast bar, bending her backwards and trapping her arms between them. She twisted to avoid a desperate knee strike, hooking her arm under the witch’s leg and holding her firmly. Their bodies were pressed together, both of them trembling and straining against each other. “It may be all I know, but at least I know to shut my mouth and keep moving. Now, who’s won this little altercation, I wonder?”

 

Choking slightly, Hermione was twisted into an awkward position, locked and immobile, and no matter what she did she couldn’t move an inch.

 

“Been looking forward to this for a while, witch,” muttered Pansy.

 

Hermione stared downwards, looking into her attacker’s eyes. A small smile flickered in their dark depths and she was dragged forward, their lips meeting in an urgent kiss. Hermione hooked her leg around Pansy’s waist, hauling her close and began pulling at her clothes, even as their tongues fought. The desperate feeling of desire swept over her, much as it had in Romania, all those months ago. Before that mission, she had never done anything like this, had never experimented with another woman. But Pansy was… Pansy was very different. They matched, she thought, as she was swiftly stripped and pushed down onto the dining room table. The coverings were swept unceremoniously aside and Hermione moaned as a rough digit was slipped into her, Pansy’s mouth covering her clit and sucking hard.

 

“Fuck, I’ve missed this!” Hermione growled, as pleasure surged through her, gripping two fistfuls of dark hair. Her emotions were already high, her body responding quickly to Pansy’s urgent ministrations. The supple witch pulled her upright, squeezing a breast and pinching a nipple, her eager mouth pressing against Hermione’s. She tasted herself on Pansy’s lips and groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer still.

 

Pushing Pansy backwards, she shoved her against a nearby cupboard, the glass door splintering. Ripping open her top, Hermione sucked hard on a pert nipple. The Slytherin’s head rolled back, fingers gripping Hermione’s hair and pulling her tighter to her. “Suck it harder,” she commanded, moaning in pleasure as Hermione obeyed. “There was nothing stopping you from giving me a call, was there? It’s not like neither of us enjoyed what we did in Romania.”

 

Sliding down Pansy’s body, Hermione pulled the witch’s tight fitting leggings down, rubbing her hand over Pansy’s trimmed pussy, eliciting a hiss of delight. “I was in a relationship,” Hermione muttered, jamming her tongue deep into Pansy’s hot, wet slit. She felt her tremble and open her legs wider as she stepped out of her clothes, giving her better access.

 

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Pansy laughed, winding her fingers through Hermione’s hair. “You were in that ‘relationship’ when we were doing this, the first time! It’s not like we weren’t aware that someone may get hurt.” Her voice was breathy and hitched as Hermione gripped her swollen clit between her teeth. “Oh, fucking hell, yes!”

 

Hermione paid attention to every part of Pansy, working her way up her body, gripping her breasts and biting on her nipples again. Pansy pulled on Hermione’s hair, dragging her round and shoving her back against the wall, her tongue plunging into her mouth and pressing her body as close as possible.

 

Pansy growled as she felt the solid bone of Hermione’s pubis pressing against her, the pressure enhancing her pleasure. She began to slide and push herself against the slightly taller witch, feeling her respond in kind. Their kisses became more frantic as each felt their orgasm building and building.

 

Gasping for breath, Hermione moaned as their slick pussies rubbed together. “Speaking of getting hurt,” she grunted, pulling Pansy’s head back and gazing into her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be killing me?”

 

Pansy grinned and bit her lower lip, hard. “Right now, I’d rather both of us get off,” she moaned, their clits pressed hard together.

 

Hermione felt a rivulet of arousal, trickling down her leg and redoubled her efforts, her own pleasure spiking as Pansy cried out in response. “We’ll worry about the rest of it later then,” she groaned.

 

Both witches ground their hips together, holding onto each other in a frantic clinch. Their breath was short and rapid, eyes locked on one another, lost in this one perfect moment. Mouth open, her breath heavy, Hermione felt her blood surge and the pressure build to a crescendo. With an incoherent cry she felt the wave of her orgasm break over her and she clutched to Pansy and the counter, desperately trying to stay upright. The lithe assassin was not far behind, adding her own voice to Hermione’s shortly afterwards, her nails digging into the taller witch’s shoulder.

 

Holding each other close, legs trembling and sweat sheening their skin, the two women shakily supported each other as they regained their senses. Foreheads together, staring into each other’s eyes, they shared a single, tender kiss before Pansy stepped away.

 

Hermione watched the dark-haired witch cautiously as she stepped towards the table, gathering her clothes and pulling a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. Lighting one with a snap of her fingers Pansy leant against the table, drawing in a deep lungful of smoke.

 

Separated by only a few feet, Hermione noted that Pansy’s wand was easily within reach and she leant against the counter casually. “So,” she said, surreptitiously checking where her own wand had landed, “what now?”

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

“You’re going to question the suspect?” Hermione sneered, pulling a splinter of glass from a cut. “Hardly appropriate, Pansy. I could spin you any old tale.”

 

“Yes, you could, but that won’t solve the puzzle in my head, and I need answers. Why?”

 

“Who says I started it? Who says I did it at all for that matter? Ever think of that?” Hermione casually edged her way towards her wand, picking up some of her clothing and dressing again, to disguise the movement.

 

“What I saw, tells me you were involved.” Pansy stretched languorously, not making any effort to cover her nakedness. “What ferret told me, makes me believe you were involved.”

 

“Involved, you keep saying. You’re not completely sure.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I’m keeping an open mind. How open my mind remains all depends on how quickly you give up trying to pick up your wand.”

 

Hermione glanced up to see Pansy, wand in hand and steadily pointed at her. With a small smile the bushy-haired witch deliberately stepped away from her wand, watching the other witch lower hers. “You’re not paid to think, sweetness. You’re paid to kill the target. We don’t get to question the orders.”

 

“Perhaps we should have. Maybe I’ve started thinking about some of those kills…”

 

“That’s a bad idea.”

 

“Maybe the aftereffects of some of those kills seem to play into someone’s hands more than they should. But I know what I saw. I saw you leave the Minister’s office in a hurry and when I checked, he was dead.” Pansy blew out a cloud of smoke, and then ran her tongue over her teeth, spitting a little blood out onto the carpet. “Throat slit with one very professional cut, in my opinion.”

 

Hermione pulled her clothes on once more and tossed her hair. “So, someone with a knife.” She glanced behind her, gesturing towards Pansy’s blade, still imbedded in the counter. “Or a sword, maybe.”

 

“And looking like you, of course.”

 

“Of course, I do like the knife. It’s more personal. You get to see the moment their tainted souls evacuate the blackened holes they called home.” Hermione grinned as she said it, but it was strained and felt fake, even to her.

 

Pansy gave a laugh, flicking the finished cigarette away. “And you say I’m thinking too much. Just seems too convenient to me. Minister ends up dead, killed by the Undersecretary’s girlfriend. Suddenly he gets to be Minister.” Pansy tilted her head. “You realise that one of your blades was found on the scene?”

 

“Pretty sloppy of me, I guess.” Hermione yanked the katana from the counter, sensing rather than seeing the witch shift her stance slightly at the sudden motion. When she turned however, Pansy had turned her back and was pulling her clothes back on. Hermione gripped the hilt, staring at the blade for a moment, thoughts racing. Carefully, she moved towards the dining room, stepping through the shattered crockery without a sound.

 

Pansy didn’t make a move, other than to continue to dress, retying the various straps and buttons on her outfit, repairing them wherever they had been pulled free. “Surprisingly sloppy,” she said, “though I suppose you heard me coming down the corridor and panicked. Both of us must have been very out of character that night.”

Hermione reversed the sword, holding it point down and lifting it high, stood directly behind the assassin. The dark-eyed woman glanced over her shoulder, as Hermione slid the sword gently into the sheath on the hit-witch’s back. She wrapped her arms around Pansy, resting her head on the slight witch’s shoulder. The Slytherin woman kissed Hermione’s hair softly, before stepping out of her embrace. “I’m going back to London now. I need to report to Draco that you’re not in Scotland. Feel free to trust me with what you know, Granger.”

 

“I wish I could, Pans.”

 

“Now you’re definitely the one thinking too much,” Pansy said, with a grin. She twisted her wand, preparing to leave, but then paused, her head cocked in a contrived expression of confusion. “Oh, one more thing before I go… Shacklebolt’s office had been ransacked, when Romilda Vane got to work in the morning. Paperwork everywhere, books torn open, drawers pulled out.”

 

Hermione shrugged, feigning ignorance, acting like she couldn’t see where Pansy was going with this. “So? Whoever killed him obviously wanted to find something then.”

 

Pansy winked, clearly seeing through Hermione’s ruse. “But it was neat and tidy still, when I looked in there the night before.” Turning on the spot she twirled her wand through her fingers and blew Hermione a kiss. “See you around, kitten.” With a virtually silent swirl of smoke, the assassin Disapparated, leaving Hermione alone in the wreckage of her kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

“So where the hell _is_ she!?” yelled the blond man, slapping his desk with an open hand. “It’s been three days, and you lot have brought me nothing of any use!”

 

On the other side of the desk the four people shifted uneasily. The large, muscular man in the middle started to speak but Draco cut him off with an impatient gesture.

 

“No, Flint, no excuses! You need to get your ham-sized thumb out your arse and find that fucking woman, now! The press is all over the Acting-Minister and we need to show results, not just a load of blank looks.” Flint flexed his hands, gripping them into fists, his jaw clenched. Draco merely lifted an eyebrow at him. “If we had found her, I could have turned you loose on her. You at least know how to batter things into submission. Fuck all use as a spy, that’s for sure!”

 

Blaise, glancing at Flint, the larger man clearly angry at Draco’s dismissive attitude, spoke quickly to forestall an incident. “We’re narrowing down her hiding places, Draco. She’s got to break cover soon.”

 

“I will find her,” promised the tall blonde girl on his left, her eyes empty of emotion. “I know she will be in my sights soon. She is too weak to not approach someone. When she does…”

 

Draco nodded at Lavender, meeting her eyes briefly, before staring daggers at Blaise. “You fucking _had_ her, Zabini! You had her and let her go. And you,” he said, turning to point at Pansy. “You were all bloody confident earlier, why so damn quiet now?”

 

Pansy cocked her head to the side, unruffled by Draco’s ire. Her hand was on her hip, stuck out to the side, the very picture of relaxed arrogance. “She’s clever,” she replied, laconically, sounding bored.

 

There was a light tap at the door and Oliver entered, stopping for a moment as he saw the whole of the secret hit team assembled together. He swallowed visibly as Lavender turned to look at him, a curious expression on her face.

 

“Yes, Wood, come in,” Draco said with a wave. “The rest of you, get out of my sight! Not you, Lavender. You stay a moment.”

 

The rest of them filed out, Blaise leading the way. Draco watched as Pansy plucked at Marcus’ sleeve, gesturing for the angry man to follow her. The blond man narrowed his eyes.

 

Lavender watched as the door closed. The second it clicked she cast a _Muffliato_ spell and turned to look at her boss. “She is hiding something.”

 

“I know,” Draco sighed. “Problem is, with Pansy, if she doesn’t want you to know something…”

 

“I can get it out of her.”

 

“I’m sure you could, my dear, but I’d like an assassin left at the end of it.”

 

“Unless she has been compromised.”

 

Draco shrugged. “If that’s the case then she would have to die too. Wood!” Draco turned to the older man and gestured to a nearby seat. “Sit, please.”

 

Lavender took hold of Oliver’s shoulder and pushed him down into the seat, firmly. She walked behind the chair and simply stood there, arms by her side. Draco noted that the Undersecretary was manfully trying not to keep looking over his shoulder, to see what she was doing and he sneered at him. Draco wasn't sure which freaked out the man more; Lavender's reputation as a violent and remorseless killer, or the way she spoke--without any contractrations--which gave her a slightly cold, and robotic manner. Whichever it was, it amused him, especially as Lavender was his deadly weapon, to wield as necessary.

 

“Don’t be alarmed, Oliver, Lavender won’t bite. Unless I tell her to.”

 

“This isn’t supposed to have happened, Malfoy,” Oliver hissed, leaning forward. “You’re supposed to have kept this under control!”

 

“Oh grow up, Wood! You knew the risks. _And_ the rewards. Happy with them, weren’t you? No problems whilst everything was going well.”

 

“There was a _plan_!”

 

“And who went off on a tangent then, huh? Not me, _Mr Undersecretary_. I’m not the one who decided to fuck it all up by bedding Granger!” Draco scowled, turning his back on Oliver and folding his arms. “She shouldn’t be this close to either of us. I told you she was too dangerous.”

 

“Me and Hermione are not the issue! It was only one time…“ Oliver stuttered and nearly swallowed his tongue, as Lavender placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs rubbing his throat, softly.

 

“Hardly one time, Oliver,” she purred in his ear. “The press is very clear that it was more than once.”

 

Draco looked over his shoulder at the pair, smiling. “We’re scrambling around, trying to pick up the pieces because your little fuck buddy was seen, fleeing the scene of the crime; a crime that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. _This_ is the problem, Oliver. It has brought a lot of focus on a small amount of people!” Walking round the desk, the scarred wizard grabbed Oliver’s chin, forcing it backwards. “But more importantly; have you found the damn pen yet?”

 

Oliver wrenched his head from Draco’s grip, staring at the man’s desk and the small, black leather case on it.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

**Six Months Earlier:**

 

The corridors of the Ministry were quiet at this time of night. The night time security wizards were present, in their dens and only the most dedicated staff (or those without a life) stayed much later than seven o’clock on a Friday night. Oliver checked his watch as he walked along the shadowed corridor; it was nearly midnight, the witching hour. He looked down at the box in his hand.

 

The black leather case, decorated with gold symbols and an outline of red gemstone, spoke of the lengths Oliver had gone to in purchasing this gift. It was a special gift, for a special recipient. He hadn’t wanted to spare any expense.

           

Pushing open the office door he had taken two steps before he realised that the office was not empty. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could perceive the large desk, sat in the centre. It was a squat, ugly thing as far as Oliver was concerned, but the owner liked it. Personally the Gryffindor thought that the dragon feet carvings at the base of each leg looked tacky.

 

Behind the desk, Oliver could see the high backed chair. It was facing away from the door, looking out over the magically projected view of London. There was someone in the chair and they were… what was that?

  
There was the sound of breathing, a soft whimpering noise; muffled, as if through someone’s fingers. The chair shifted slightly as if the occupant had stirred and there was the barest hint of expelled breath, like a sob, held back.

 

“Draco?” Oliver stepped closer, reaching out to turn the chair, wondering why Draco was in his office, why he was _crying_ in his office!

 

With a sudden gasp, the occupant of the chair sprang up, the chair tipping to one side. Oliver found himself staring at the dishevelled outline of a wild haired female, her wand pointed at his face. Hesitantly he lifted his hand out to his sides.

 

“The box,” the woman said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Drop it.”

 

“It’s expensive… can I…?” Oliver gestured towards the desk and slowly leant forward, placing the box on the table top.

 

“ _Lumos_ ,” she muttered and the wand tip lit up the room in a sudden flare of brightness. “Oliver?”

 

“Hermione? Wha… what happened?” Oliver stared in amazement at the hit-witch in surprise. As far as he knew, from the files he had reviewed with Draco and the Minister, she was supposed to be in Sweden, dealing with a village that was allegedly harbouring a Dark cult. The two-man team wasn’t due back for days, at least. If she was here… “Where’s Lavender?” Oliver mentally congratulated himself on keeping his voice steady, as he said the Ice Queen’s name. He knew it was the first time Hermione had been paired with her since 'The Incident'—neither witch really liked the other, thanks to some history from their Hogwarts years, The Incident itself, and radical differences in style: Hermione thought Brown was too extreme in her methods, Lavender thought the other was too weak to do what needed to be done.

 

Personally, the damn woman terrified Oliver. She hadn’t been right in the head since the Battle, and since then… There was little of the old Lavender Brown left.

 

Hermione lowered her wand and Oliver couldn’t stop the gasp as it burst from him. The light revealed the front of Hermione’s combat outfit, spattered with blood, all of it drying in brown and blackened patches. The tears and cuts in her clothes became apparent, the nicks and stab marks on her arms.

 

Oliver stared into Hermione’s haunted eyes, realising that she was barely conscious, clearly exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Swallowing hard, he stepped closer, trying to take the wand from the almost catatonic witch. He flinched slightly, when she suddenly spoke.

 

“She just killed them…” Her voice was frail and weak and she swayed as Oliver stepped closer, his hand closing over hers. “All of them… oh, Oliver,” she sobbed, dropping her wand to the floor and throwing her arms around the surprised wizard. “She just slaughtered them. The women, the children… sliced them open… didn’t even give them a chance. I had to bury the place…”

 

Unsure what to say, Oliver stroked her hair and mumbled comforting nonsense, trying to wrap his head around what Hermione was saying. They stood that way for some time, Oliver unable to speak, unable to find the right words even. He had never seen Hermione show any kind of emotion or remorse about a hit before and it stunned him with the strength of her reaction.

 

Hermione’s sobs racked her body as she let out all her backed up grief, anguish and guilt. How long had she been blocking these emotions off? How long had she just bottled her feelings up and stuck them in some hidden drawer in her mind, unopened, unexamined?

 

He became aware that Hermione was still speaking through her tears, whispering something, and her fingers clutched at him more firmly. Her lips were on his neck, kissing him! His shirt was almost off before he gathered his wits, realising that he was being backed towards the wall. “Hermione,” he said, a slight edge in his voice. “What… what are you…”

 

“It’s called sex, Oliver,” the witch said, yanking the shirt down his arms, pulling her own top up and over her head and casting it aside. Taking his head in her hands, she stared into his eyes and he flinched at the darkness he saw in their depths. His body responded to her breasts, pressed against his chest, his back to the wall. “It’s been years. I’ve seen nothing but death. I feel nothing but emptiness.” Her hands dropped to his waist, pulling and tugging at his belt. In short order she had it undone, pulling it free and unbuttoning his trousers. “I need to feel something; something other than this death in my heart, just for tonight.”

 

Oliver stared at her for a moment, still struggling to catch up with what was happening, as she casually stripped the rest of her own clothes off. He watched as the powerful witch, now completely naked, walked away from him. She placed her hands on the oak surface of Draco’s desk and leant forwards.

 

“Any time today, Wood,” she said angrily, tossing her hair over her shoulder

 

“Hermione, I’m not sure…” Oliver could feel himself, hard and eager, aroused by what he was being offered. But this seemed so… wrong. Forced almost. “We’re not even…”

 

“You want to take me out for a drink? Tell me about your day, first?” Hermione snapped, stalking over to him and grabbing him by the waistband of his trousers. Dragging him forward the angry witch dropped to her knees, yanking Oliver’s trousers and briefs down at the same time. Standing, she wrapped a rough hand around the man’s shaft and pulled him closer. Her other hand pinched his chin and pulled his face to hers, ignoring his gasp of pain. “I’m not asking you for a _date_ , Wood. I don’t need a _relationship_. I need you to stick your dick in me, now!”

 

Pushing him slightly, Hermione turned and leant forward onto the desk again, opening her legs and displaying herself to him. “I don’t want to remember the last day, Oliver. Just give me something else to think about, I’m begging you. I need to feel… something.”

 

Oliver stepped forward, putting aside his doubts and taking what he was offered, in the spirit it was offered. His blood surged as he felt her reach between her legs, gripping his shaft and guiding him in. As her warmth began to envelop him, he realised that she wasn’t ready. He started to move away, looking for his wand, intending to cast a lubricating charm, when Hermione grabbed his wrist.

 

“No,” she moaned, realising his intentions, “just do it. I’m okay!”

 

Pushing forwards, feeling Hermione stretch around him, Oliver forced his way in. As he began to move within her, he felt her begin to loosen and she pushed herself down onto Draco’s desk, lifting her arse higher.

 

“Faster,” she begged, arching her back, fingernails scratching across the highly polished surface of the desk. “Harder!” She growled, low in her throat, as Oliver complied, thrusting faster, deeper, grunting with the effort. “Hit me… slap me, Wood!”

 

“What?”

 

“Fucking _hit_ me,” Hermione shouted, banging a fist on the desk. “I need you to hurt me, Oliver!”

 

Hesitantly, Oliver struck one upturned butt cheek.

 

“Harder,” the witch moaned. Another slap, a little harder this time but still not enough it seemed. “Do I have to teach you to be a man, Oliver?” Hermione thrust backwards, knocking the wizard off balance. Spinning to face him she slapped him around the face, the impact nearly spinning him round. “HIT. ME.”

 

“Hermione…”

 

Face twisted in anger and her hair crackling in frustration, Hermione grabbed Oliver by the throat and threw him against the wall. Pushing herself against him she gripped his wrists and clapped them to her breasts. “Squeeze them! Harder!” Her voice devolved into a growl as Oliver clenched her soft breasts hard. She mashed her face against his, kissing him aggressively, biting his lip and drawing blood. “Now you’re getting it. Haven’t you ever wanted it rough?”

 

Oliver gave a strangled shout as Hermione gripped his nipple and twisted it. “Fucking hell!”

 

“I need it rough, Oliver. Like you hate me.”

 

“I don’t though,” he protested.

 

“Yes, I’m not a complete idiot!” Her hands gripped his neck, pulling him round so her back was against the filing cabinet nearby. Wrapping her leg around his waist, she slipped her hand between them, lining him up with her entrance again. Pulling at his hip she dragged him deep inside her once more with a groan of pleasure. “Now come on, fuck me like you hate me!”

 

Throwing her head back against the cool metal with a clang, Hermione lifted her hands to grip the top of the unit, bursts of noise exploding from her, interspersed with higher cries as Oliver started to slam her, pulling on her nipples and gripping her throat. “That’s it, yes!”

 

He lifted both her legs and wrapped them around his waist, slapping her arse as hard as he could. He couldn’t believe the strange freedom he was feeling, the pleasure that swept over him at her response and the power it seemed to give him. He had never felt so in command as the steady impacts against the cabinet rocked it and Hermione continued to pant and gasp.

 

“Move me… the desk… do it properly this time!”

 

With a growl Oliver grabbed Hermione’s hair, sliding out of her and dropping her feet to the floor. Keeping her off balance he dragged her to the desk. Throwing her against it, he bent her forward, pressing her face into the cool wood as he slid into her again. He roughly pounded into her as she moaned and growled at him. A resounding slap across her arse instantly turned the firm cheek red.

 

“Yesssss!” she cried, as she received another, and another. “God, yes, yes, yes!”

 

Oliver felt his balls clench and his heart race at the energy exuding from the highly sexual witch before him. Her back arched as she gave a low, keening cry that climbed and climbed to a crescendo. Gripping her waist and supporting her, Oliver felt her tighten around his cock with her muscles, spasming wildly under him and the sudden pressure tipped him over the edge. His blood surged, roaring in his ears as he came, his own orgasm stronger than he had ever had before.

 

Sweat coated their bodies and Oliver leant forward, exhausted and resting his cheek against Hermione’s back for a moment. Their ragged breathing was the only thing he could hear over the sound of his own heart beat, pounding in his ears.

 

Hermione stood, pushing Oliver away and the man staggered back, falling into a chair. Sitting down in surprise he looked up at the powerful witch as she ran a hand through her hair.

 

“Good boy,” she said with a smile and sat on the edge of the desk, wincing slightly. Hermione picked up the box that Oliver had brought in and opened it, looking at the contents. “Nice fountain pen. Present?”

 

Oliver nodded, still breathing hard, a thread of fear worming its way through him. “Just a little gift for… for Draco. A little reward, from the Minister, for his hard work. Something he wanted apparently.”

 

“I bet. He does like nice things, our fearless leader.” Snapping the lid closed again and placing the box back on the table, Hermione stood and began to collect her things, casting a quick charm to clean herself up.

 

Oliver stood too and pulled his trousers back on. “So… the uh… the mission…?”

 

“Was a success, Wood.” Her voice was forceful, brooking no discussion or argument. “I’m sure Lavender will propose it be written up as one and Draco will accept that result. It’s in Sweden so not on home soil; any Dark cult followers will have been destroyed; Maxford and his lieutenants were all present, and any soldiers that happened to be away will have nothing to go back to. The landslide and avalanche burying the hamlet will be put down as a fluke, natural phenomenon; the report will be buried in the Ministry and never come to light again.” Hermione ticked the points off on her fingers as she spoke. “We never asked permission to operate in Sweden but there should be no entanglement with the local authorities, because every witness is dead and I’m good at concealing my tracks… better than…” She gave a shiver, avoiding Lavender’s name. “Life goes on. Well, apart from… you know.”

 

Oliver swallowed at the frank appraisal of the situation but couldn’t argue the facts. As he leant over to collect his shirt, Hermione said, “Thank you, Oliver,” and closed the office door behind her.

 

Oliver turned to the empty room, his eyes being drawn to the box on Draco’s table. That worm of fear still needled at him but he ignored it.


	4. Chapter 4

The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was a huge, vaulted dome that towered above all petitioners, workers and visitors. Its high ceiling was normally a bright, peacock blue but, in the middle of the night, the lights were lowered, the letters that usually passed across the high ceiling were missing and the staff were absent.

 

The whole, massive area was silent as Hermione stepped cautiously forwards, heading for the lifts at the far end. No alarms had gone off, no outcry had been raised. So far so good, she thought.

 

Pansy had been right, of course. There were things about the hits they had been given, in the last few months, that didn’t add up. Some strange names and unusual places. All orders had born the seal and signature of the Minister and the Head of the Auror Office though, so they hadn’t questioned their validity. Now though, in the circumstances, Hermione felt that she should follow up on Pansy’s hints.

 

She just hoped she wasn’t walking into a trap, set by the skilled assassin.

 

The Atrium was _very_ quiet and Hermione kept her wits about her as she stepped into the lift, pressing the button for Level 2: Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The lift door closed rapidly and the car lifted itself into the air, carrying Hermione upwards.

 

After a short ride the doors opened into the dimly lit corridor. Hermione checked both ways, slipping out and along the wall to the right, stopping at the corner to look for any movement. In front of the heavy oak doors was an Auror, sat behind a desk: the night watchman.

 

He was asleep, head lolled back and resting against the wall. As Hermione approached though she saw that he wasn’t asleep voluntarily. A large bruise was developing on his left temple.

 

Alert for trouble Hermione stepped closer to the doors. Silence was all that greeted her and no charms, wards or other defensive magic had been placed on the entrance. She frowned, knowing that there was always _something_ on the door, if only to announce the person entering and register them, in case of later issues. There was nothing however.

 

This, combined with the—clearly—silent take down of the guard indicated one of her fellows; but which one? And why?

 

Wand gripped tightly, Hermione stepped into the Auror Office, looking around at the empty and darkened cubicles, poster, maps and the like, stuck to the walls. Investigation boards with notes and clippings from the _Daily Prophet_ lined the walkways and meeting areas. Nothing moved.

 

With more confidence than she felt, Hermione walked towards the far doors and the corridor that led to Draco’s office. Nothing stopped her or interfered with her in any way. Reaching the doors she once more paused and listened, and when certain all was clear, she pushed the door open.

 

Behind her, at the entrance, there was a scrape, as if of a boot on wood and Hermione spun, wand raised, ready to strike.

 

A figure stood in the doorway, a woman, making as if to leave, but looking back over towards Hermione. The hilt of a sword jutted above her shoulder and the dark-haired woman nodded once, before stepping out of the office without a sound.

 

Hermione smiled and stepped through the door, heading quickly for Draco’s office. She found the door unlocked, partially open and undefended. Praying that she wasn’t being played by the secretive woman, Hermione entered the cool interior, moving straight to the filing cabinets to the left of the room.

 

It did not take her long to find the files she was looking for. No matter what she thought of Draco, he ran a tight ship and his filing was ordered to the point of anal. Spreading them out on the large desk, Hermione began to search, casting a small charm on the door to the main Auror office to alert her for any other intruders.

In short order she began to piece together the pieces that Pansy had hinted at. There it was; the proof that he had betrayed the Ministry. Taken everything he had been given, everything he had worked for, and then cheated, lied and murdered his way to still more.

 

Several kills were clearly genuine cases and Hermione set these aside. The rest, a pile of over thirty missions all had two things in common. The target’s tenuously proven guilt and the assets that became Ministry property upon their death—whether it was because of their Dark nature, their value, or the lack of relatives to inherit it.

 

Lots of extremely valuable items, wands, artefacts, potions, money… all of it pouring into the Ministry and into a separate vault at Gringotts to be investigated. Every single piece had been inspected and signed for by one person.

 

Oliver Wood.

 

His signature covered everything in these files, always above Kingsley’s name, signed per procurationem. Hermione shook her head and continued reading, a half smile on her lips as she found more evidence. It was skilfully hidden but she soon had everything gathered together; if this information got out, every single person involved would burn.

 

The witch began to put the files back again, those that didn’t pertain to the conspiracy that is; those, she was taking with her. There was no way Hermione could leave them here.

 

Halfway through, she paused, realising that a scrap of paper had got wedged in the side of the drawer, amongst the runners. Gently she pulled it free, seeing it covered in a familiar, flowing script: Lavender’s handwriting.

 

_J. F-F_

_Department of Chemistry_

_Gordon Street_

_Lo_

****

The rest of the address had been torn off but it didn’t matter. That made sense at last, Hermione mused. She had wondered how they had got hold of the dimethylmercury. Looked like Lavender had kept in touch with—or, more likely, tracked down—an easily manipulated Muggleborn and used him to get some of the lethal neurotoxin from a Muggle chemistry laboratory. Or tortured him till he helped. How the poor Hufflepuff had managed it and if he even still lived, Hermione didn’t know, but it was another mystery solved.

 

Waving her wand over the files, she shrunk them down to miniature size and popped them into a pocket. Tidying the office, Hermione walked quickly out again, heading for the lift. At the lift she paused, eyeing the doors in surprise.

 

A large arrow, pointing towards the ceiling, was drawn in dark purple lipstick. A message from Pansy, no doubt. Could she mean…? After some moments of internal debate she pressed the button for Level 1 and headed up towards the upper level.

 

The thick, purple carpets, muffled her rapid footsteps as she headed, knife drawn and held point down, towards the office at the far end. At the last minute she turned aside from the Minister’s office and kicked open another door, striding through the large chamber. Rows and rows of desks lined the room to her left but she ignored them, heading instead for the only door on the right. The little plaque said: _Oliver Wood – Senior Undersecretary to the Minster for Magic._

 

With a solid kick the door splintered in the middle and the occupant of the large chair, behind the highly polished desk, sat up with a start. Before Oliver could do more than stammer her name, Hermione had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the desk, throwing him to the floor.

 

As he struggled to stand Hermione kicked him in the ribs, lifting him from the ground and stealing his breath. He lay on the floor, waving at her to stop as he gasped and wheezed.

 

“Good evening, Mr Undersecretary,” Hermione said, pleasantly, crouching down beside the stricken wizard, knife resting against his throat. “Did you miss me?”

 

“Hermione,” he managed after a moment, “why… what…?”

 

“We need to talk, Mr Wood.” Grabbing his collar again, she hauled him to his feet and pushed him through the open door, into the open plan office filled with desks.

 

Oliver staggered away, catching himself against one of the chairs. “Hermione, wait! Whatever it is you want I’m sure we can sort everything out.”

 

He tried to duck but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the right hook that spun him and knocked him off his feet. “Should have kept up your Quidditch, Oliver. You’re getting slow.”

 

The man groaned in pain, lying on his back as Hermione walked up to him. Without a word, or change in her expression, the witch grabbed his ankle, lifted his leg, and slammed her heel down on Oliver’s kneecap. The sickening crunch was partially hidden behind the deafening scream of pain.

 

Ignoring the man’s cries, she flicked her wand, hooking a blue rope of magic around his ankle. He found himself being dragged towards the far end of the room where, over the balustrade, one could look all the way down to the floor of the Atrium.

 

“What are you doing? Hermione!?” Wood stammered, desperately trying to retrieve his wand from the pocket of his jacket, as he slid along the floor.

 

“So what was the plan, Wood? I believe there _was_ a plan?” Hermione didn’t slow, didn’t even look at him, just twirling her long knife through her fingers, still casually dragging him along.

 

“Hermione, please. Don’t do this, I’m begging you!” He wrenched his wand from his pocket.

 

“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” Hermione cried, the disarming charm pulling the wand from his hand. He gave a cry of anguish as the bushy-haired witch snatched it from the air. With swift, decisive movements, Hermione snapped the wand between her hands and threw the pieces over the balcony.

 

Oliver slumped to the floor in defeat as he stared at the wand tip, aimed between his eyes.

 

“Did you want to go get it back, Oliver? No? Well, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to talk to me and you’re going to tell me the truth. If I’m not satisfied with your answers, you get to go fetch your wand.”

 

“I had nothing to do with the Minister’s death, Hermione!”

 

“Well, see that’s wrong, straight away,” Hermione said, shaking her head in disappointment and lifting a finger. “I’d be careful what I said next, if I were you.”

 

“The Minister wasn’t supposed to die! Honestly, I never wanted Kingsley to die… just become ill enough to retire, to step down early. That’s what was supposed to happen!”

 

“Ahh, now we’re getting to it. So what went wrong? Kingsley was going to die, even if someone hadn’t slit his throat for him.”

 

“I don’t know… no, no, honestly, I don’t!” Oliver panicked slightly as Hermione began to lift a second finger. “I didn’t know he was going to die. Him dying would bring too much attention onto us. He was going to get sick and then retire, that’s all that was supposed to happen. It was going to take a few months, a year at most…”

 

“’Us?’ You mean you and Draco? And Lavender, of course.”

 

Oliver was wide eyed, shocked at how much Hermione seemed to know. “How…?”

 

“Just because I’m asking a question, don’t assume I don’t already know the answer.” The witch gave Oliver’s broken leg a little kick, eliciting a groan of pain. “Now talk.”

 

The injured man began to speak, details spilling out of him about his terrible gambling debts, brought about by extremely poor decisions, made over Quidditch matches; the money Draco leant him to place his large bet on the last World Cup; the plan to recover his loses with artefacts and the Minister’s job; Draco holding his leash.

 

When he paused to breathe Hermione spoke over him. “The only problem with that plan, my sweet, is that everything that was coming in… all those wonderfully valuable artefacts and whatnot? They’re all in _your_ name. Draco’s name doesn’t feature anywhere on many of the official documents. I know, I checked.”

 

Oliver gaped, his thoughts seeming to abandon him, as he took in what Hermione was saying.

 

“You’re in very serious trouble here, Oliver. With the Minister out of the way, you no doubt hoped to step up and become the new Minister, with the full backing of the Head of the Aurors. But, unfortunately, you have a devious and sneaking Slytherin for a co-conspirator, just waiting in the wings. And he has all the evidence he needs to put you away forever, and in the process claim the job he’s wanted for a long, long time.”

 

“No, Draco wouldn’t… why would he do that?”

 

“You need more of a reason than ‘because he’s a sneaking, devious little shit who wants that job’? He is bitter, angry and resentful, and in you he found a desperate little scapegoat that he can lock up and reap all the benefits.” Hermione flicked her hair over her shoulder and crouched down so that she was level with Oliver, the long blade of her knife resting over her knees. “As long as Kingsley didn’t die suspiciously, your plan would work fine, and Draco’s would have followed swiftly after. Now though... a vicious murder, whilst in his office... Well, that just brings a whole different set of questions, and much closer scrutiny.” Hermione stood, walking towards the balcony. “Now Draco has to keep you around, so he can deflect the blame, if he has to. But if someone found the pen…”

 

Oliver looked up, fear in his eyes warring with hope. “You’ve got it? You’ve got the pen?”

 

“No,” Hermione said, “the pen is somewhere safe. I took it from the Minister shortly after his death so that it could be used against the one who had planted it.” Walking back towards the fallen Gryffindor, Hermione smiled coldly. “But that was you wasn’t it? It was the same pen you had on you, all those months ago. You told me it was for Draco, but then I saw Kingsley using it. Two and two, does tend to keep making four.”

 

“You took the pen from…?”

 

Hermione ignored him, speaking over him. “You can help bring Draco down though, Oliver. I have a plan that will ensure that all of the evidence gets to the right people and it exposes Draco for the sneaking, lying snake that he is.”

 

“How?”

 

“You’re not going to enjoy it,” she said, as Oliver struggled to sit upright, trying and failing to stand. “Your name will be dragged through the mud too, but I will do my best to ensure that there is enough evidence to show that Draco was the man behind the plot, him and the Ice Queen both. That they poisoned the Minister with a Muggle compound, obtained by Lavender Brown, smeared on a pen that _you_ procured for them. That they used you and planned to kill you or arrest you, after you had taken up the post of Minister. All so Draco could claim it for himself as the ‘rightful’ successor. You would be an accessory but I can help you avoid going to Azkaban for it.”

 

“Okay, but how do you propose to do that?” Oliver shuffled closer to Hermione, one hand held out, imploringly.

 

The brief flash of the blade was all he saw in reply, before a terrible burning sensation began in his shoulder and neck. Lifting an unsteady hand, he felt the hilt of Hermione’s long knife, jutting out at the point where his torso and neck met. He coughed, a squirt of blood dribbling over his lips. A bright red spray of arterial blood flooded between his trembling fingers as he struggled for breath. His lungs were bubbling as he tried to breathe.

 

Hermione crouched down in front of him, barely visible through his dimming eyesight. He felt her warm hand on his and her voice, coming from miles down a dark tunnel, washed over him.

 

“The same way I helped Kingsley start to expose this conspiracy in the first place.”

 

Hermione pulled him onto her lap, holding him close; whispering comfortingly to him, as his life’s blood seeped and squirted between his fingers. She held him gently, until Death closed his eyes forever.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

**_ ACTING-MINISTER FOR MAGIC MURDERED! _ **

**_Rogue Hit-Witch Strikes Again As Conspiracy Is Revealed!_ **

_Senior Undersecretary and Acting Minister for Magic, Oliver Wood, was found dead today, killed by rogue hit-witch, Hermione Granger. His body was found in the Atrium at Ministry of Magic headquarters, floating in the fountain. This is her second savage murder on Ministry grounds. The wickedly sharp knife that ended Wood’s life, conclusively identified as Hermione Granger’s, had stabbed his throat and cut the Acting Minister’s life short in a brutal display of violence._

_More terrible than this, dear readers, is that he was surrounded by files; each containing details of assassinations and kidnappings, perpetrated by a team of secret Hit-Witches and Wizards, the names of whom are unknown at this time. Referred to only by aliases, the six man team has been working secretly for several years, right under our noses!_

_As shocking as the twin revelations of Oliver Wood’s death and the discovery of a team of murderers are, it is nothing compared to the deeper conspiracy revealed in the documentation found by senior investigators!_

_Draco Malfoy, Head of the Auror Office and leader of the secret band of assassins, has been taken into custody for conspiracy to defraud the Ministry, to murder the Minister and to profit from the cold-blooded killing of magical citizens…_

 

Shifting in her seat, feet up on the patio table, the dark-haired woman continued to read the newspaper article, peering briefly over her sunglasses and murmuring her thanks, as a large glass of cider was placed in front of her by a waiter.

 

Her companion, stood with his back to her, muscular arms folded across his expansive chest, gazed stoically out onto the small beer garden at the back of the quaint village pub. A gently babbling stream ran through the centre of the lawn, a sturdy wooden bridge crossing it. All around the lawn were scattered tables with long benches attached. Most were empty, with only a couple of Muggles out in the later afternoon sunshine, enjoying a pint.

 

“So,” he said, gruffly, “now what?”

 

“All in good time, cub, all in good time.” The woman took a sip of her drink and gave a small laugh as she continued to read. “Clever girl.”

 

Marcus looked over his shoulder, his handsome face twisted in annoyance. “Clever? She killed Wood. You do realise that she most likely killed Kingsley as well, right?”

 

Pansy lowered her paper and tipped her sunglasses with a lazy gesture. “Kingsley Shacklebolt was a dead man walking, the moment he picked up his shiny new pen. If she _did_ help him along then it wasn’t much of a journey. She had her reasons… and probably the blessing of her victim, if I read things right.”

 

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know why everyone is always so bloody cryptic, or why you won’t tell me what you know. We’ve already laid our cards on the table, Pansy, by not turning up when we were called. Lavender’s already busted Draco out of Azkaban and Blaise is with them too. Pretty sure we’re both fucked, so you may as well level with me.”

 

“Not as fucked as we would have been if we had answered Lavender’s call,” Pansy said, turning her attention back to the paper. “If we can keep hidden then the public will forget about us in time.”

 

Marcus gave a bitter laugh. “They’ve got the files, Pans. They’ll figure out who we are pretty quickly. Draco won’t forgive us for betraying him. And the bitch who started all this has up and scarpered as well! She causes this complete shit storm and then…”

 

He paused suddenly, his sharp eyes catching sight of an unusual creature in the river and Pansy looked up, catching his mood. Looking towards the stream she felt a wide grin on her face as something pulled itself out of the water and scrambled up the bank. “Now,” she said stowing the paper in the small satchel, sat beside her chair and standing smoothly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

 

The small, blue Patronus bounded along the path, shaking water and sparks of magic from its fur and tail as it did so. Reaching Pansy and Marcus, it stopped and stood up on its hind legs, leaning its head to the side.

 

“Hello kitten,” the assassin purred, crouching down to tickle the otter under the chin. “You ready to talk now?”

 

 

The End…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to my recipient for her awesome prompts, not that I would have expected any less. I hope I have managed to interpret your prompt in a way that you will enjoy :)
> 
> Thanks also to my esteemed team of Alpha and Beta readers: Ladies, you all know who you are. In many ways, I couldn’t have done this without you.
> 
> And last, but not least, to MM: for trusting me with this and for giving me the chance (albeit a bit last minute! lol) to write for a fellow author that I admire very much indeed.
> 
>  
> 
> Original Prompt:
> 
> Hermione is an Investigative Auror or Hit Witch, who is accused of a crime she may or may not have committed (intrigue pls!). She goes to [insert name here] for help, a colleague/counterpart she has a history with beyond what appears on the surface. Said character may or may not be someone she can trust, potential for much double crossing. Can be dark, humorous, or somewhere in between.


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